


Open Your Eyes

by Dana



Series: Without You, What Would I Be? [2]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Connor cares about some boundaries and then he goes and masturbates in Hank's bed lmao, M/M, Masturbation, Not Beta Read, Post-Game, Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-05-31 10:20:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19423996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dana/pseuds/Dana
Summary: Even before Connor had a name for it, he knew he had feelings for Hank Anderson.





	Open Your Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> So, funny story, I wrote this in August, finished it in September, and then just... never posted it like wtf? Why would I do that? Not exactly beta read because it's been sitting on my hard drive long enough, hope you enjoy anyway!

Even before Connor had a name for it, he knew he had feelings for Hank Anderson.

Feelings – something so incredibly nebulous, sensations he was still coming to terms with, though deviancy had been mostly kind. _Love_ , yes, but there is also fear – specifically, fear of rejection. That Hank would push him away, that Hank would make him leave. Connor didn't know what he'd do

Hank. The man who had helped give him a new purpose in life, who'd become his closest friend, who'd shaped his deviancy even before he was deviant. Hank, who'd opened his house to Connor, when Connor had nowhere else to go. The man who Connor thought of constantly, even when it seemed he was externally occupied with something else.

Connor is a vastly superior prototype and while he was built to seamlessly integrate with the humans around him, real friendship had not been one of his missions. Yes, for the sake of his investigation, it only would have benefited the both of them, for him to build a closer bond with his human partner: he'd have been whatever Hank needed him to be, _whatever_ it took. Connor was not always very good at it, though he did always try – sometimes he'd say the wrong thing, even when he had the right intentions. Hank was, even for a human, sometimes hot, and sometimes cold – but he had wanted to believe that Connor was more than a machine, and there was a part of Connor that had wanted to prove him right.

Feelings of partnership, of friendship, it led to something more. Now, he wishes for Hank to touch him, to _want_ to touch him, for Hank to never stop. Connor wants to kiss Hank, to feel the softness of his lips, the hard prickle of his beard against the soft skin of Connor's face; it would be a beautiful dichotomy, so perfect and extreme. He wants to – _he wants_ – Hank has given him so much and yet it cannot possibly be enough, because it doesn't stop Connor from wanting more.

He is seeking something specific, and he knows exactly what it is.

While it was far from Connor's primary function, his model still came equipped with working genitalia. While the likelihood itself was slim, there was always the chance it might have proved a benefit to his mission. Humans did react more positively to things that were like themselves – be too human and an android would run the risk of the uncanny valley. It was why humans and androids were, for the most part, physically indistinguishable from one another.

Connor has never had a reason to use them, before now, though he's sure they must have been… tested, to make sure that they were functional, like all of his other components had been tested. And yes, if using them would have fostered a better connection between himself and Hank, at least while the deviant investigation was ongoing, he'd have happily (as happily as was possible) had sexual intercourse with his partner.

But now, after the fact, Connor is glad that the opportunity had not presented itself. He would not have wanted it, if he had not been able to honestly _feel_ (oh, and he was feeling things already, so many wonderful, confusing things). It would not have been right, it would have been an empty act. And Hank, _Hank_ , surely he would have felt like he was taking advantage of Connor, since, as an android who was programmed to do what he was told, it's not like he could give proper consent.

Perhaps Connor is only setting himself up for failure, for heartbreak (he doesn't even have a heart). Hank could not possibly feel for Connor what Connor feels for him, only, Connor knows that Hank watches him sometimes when he believes that he is not being noticed. And watching Hank, it is simply something that Connor _does_. Analyzing, and categorizing, always making plans. He is not _weak_. Beneath the softness of his body, the underlying strength of his muscles. He wants Hank to be happy, but more than that, Connor wants Hank to be happy with _him_.

He knows, Hank is selfish about some things (Connor is selfish, too). But he would not be selfish about this. It would not be about what Hank wanted, what Hank liked. Hank would want to make sure that Connor was getting something out of it, too. So while he does spend some time looking at pornographic videos in general, just to get an eye for things, he avoids investigating Hank's internet browser history (he would rather not upset Hank by overstepping yet another personal boundary, any anger that might possibly result from it, it seemed counterproductive).

Connor is not actually good at a lot of the things that deviancy has revealed to him, and the reality of the fact does sometimes sting. He is a very advanced prototype, none of this should be difficult, and yet – and yet, it is. And there are still those times when he simply forgets that he is allowed to _want_. And as much as he wants this for Hank, Connor wants it for _himself_.

He checks on Sumo. He's curled up beside his food bowl, half in and half out of his doggy bed. Connor's played with him, and taken him on several walks, and now the dog is asleep with his head resting on his front paws. Connor smiles down at him, but won't risk waking him by giving him a pat. That can wait for later.

It's certainly a different sort of day, Hank at work and Connor at home. For the most part, their schedules overlap. On days like these, Hank usually ends up being forced to partner with Detective Reed. He mentions sometimes, how the two of them used to be friends. How something happened, and now Hank's Hank, and Gavin, well, Gavin's the biggest fuckface on the force.

But the thing is, Hank won't be home for hours, which means Connor has plenty of time to do what he wants to do.

Connor knows he is a hypocrite. Looking into Hank's internet browser history would be overstepping one boundary, and yet Connor does not second guess his decision to violate the privacy of Hank's own bedroom to further investigate the hypotheses he's already been able to gather. His reasoning is, he does not have a bedroom of his own, and would feel quite exposed in the living room.

Anyhow, if he were to engage in sexual activities with Hank, surely they would do so in his bedroom. On the bed that Connor knows, from previous experience, is lumpy in some places and acceptably comfortable in others. He has not had many opportunities to sleep in Hank's bed, but it's happened a few times, and each of those times, he cherishes. After the first time it happened, when Hank had caught him after having a nightmare, Hank had made it clear that if he had any others and didn't feel like sleeping on his own any longer, he could just wake Hank up and climb in bed with him. Hank would go back to sleep, Connor could go back into stasis. No big deal, right?

Only, shouldn't that have bothered the man? Connor made sure to keep to his own side of the bed, but the gulf between them was only so _finite_. He could have blamed his sleep-mode if he wanted to, turned into Hank's heat, and pressed himself close. He could have, and he'd _wanted_ to, and –

And, he could have done a lot of things. He is doing one of those things right now, by utilizing Hank's bedroom for this particular stretch of his research.

First, Connor sits on the bed. He's still fully clothed. He closes his eyes, and thinks of Hank touching him – of Connor, being able to touch Hank. He presses a hand to his chest and lets it slide downwards, but quickly decides that with his shirt on (the one that used to belong to Hank, the one that is too big from him, that hangs down off one shoulder, and always makes Hank _stare_ ), there is simply too much interference in the way. His sensors need to get a clear reading, which they are currently unable to do.

He takes off the shirt and folds it, then sets it neatly to the side. He knows his body was sculpted with the height of human beauty in mind, though human beauty standards are themselves a concept too foreign for Connor to grasp. To him, Hank is beautiful. His silky hair, the sometimes hard lines of his face. How he softens when he smiles, or laughs. Hank is, in all ways apparent, perfectly ideal.

Now that Connor's taken his shirt off, he should probably get around to taking off the rest of his clothes as well.

He sits back down on the edge of the bed and his thirium pump skips a beat. He's never been so excited about something that is, honestly, so incredibly insignificant (and if anything would be overstep a boundary, wouldn't it be, even just the thought of it, masturbating in Hank's bed?). But, it is a part of Connor, one that Connor would like to better understand. For his own benefit, for Hank's as well.

It isn't insignificant at all.

But sitting there does not feel right, even as he skims his fingertips across his bare skin. He turns aside and then crawls further inwards, to the center of the bed, the slight depression beneath him indicating that is Hank's preferred place to sleep. Yes, Connor decides, this is much better. And then he laughs, suddenly, a burst of nerves. He curls inwards and settles himself down, lying in the spot that Hank himself has occupied, countless times before.

He closes his eyes, again, lets his hands roam across his bare skin as Hank's scent sits heavily in Connor's olfactory receptors. The warmth of Hank's scent, heavy with his musk and traces of his preferred cologne. It mixes up inside of Connor's head, and the room starts to spin about him. His thirium pump skips a few more beats, and he closes the error warnings as they begin to cloud his vision. He knows exactly what he is doing, only, he doesn't actually know anything at all.

He lets out as a soft sigh as he slides the palm of his hand over his hardening phallus. Hank would not use such clinical terminology, oh, but Hank isn't _here_. He grips himself and slides his hand up, and down, searching for some sort of pleasant rhythm. And it is, in fact, very pleasant. He pauses, exploratory, to investigate his testes. They're aesthetic, and smooth to the touch. His body converts thirium for his various bodily releases, whether it be for tears, or saliva, or the lubricant his body uses for a number of different purposes.

And, he knows his body is responding in all the right ways – his erect phallus has grown even harder, and there is fluid leaking from the tip, artificial pre-come. _Yes_ , it feels good, but something seems to be missing – something that Connor cannot quite place.

What would Hank think, seeing him here? Connor has deduced that Hank harbors some sort of physical attraction towards him, based on the evidence he has gathered so far – the way his eyes would dilate, his heart rate would spike, and even his core temperature would rise. But to see him, here, touching himself in Hank's own bed. What would Hank _say_?

Connor doesn't mean to squeeze himself, tightly, only he _does_ – there is a direct correlation between the physical act, and him thinking of what Hank would think, would say, if he could only see what Connor was doing, and the response is hot like electricity, a flash of it racing along his wires. And it felt better than anything else had, so far, so Connor chases after it again, loudly gasping when he gets what he wants.

If Hank were here, perhaps Connor wouldn't feel so lost. If Hank were here, perhaps he could tell Connor what to do.

A loud gasp escapes him and he squeezes himself even harder than he had before, quickening the speed of his thrusts, another delicious crackle of heat dancing across his body. He likes the thought of that very much, Hank being there, too, watching him, and telling him how to touch himself.

Connor stops, attempting to catch his breath, the build up of heat in his body close to overwhelming. He swipes away a few more error messages after giving them the barest flicker of his attention. He uncurls himself and sits up, stares at the hand that is damp with his own artificial slick. Hank is not here to tell him _no_ , but Connor thinks, if things were going very well, perhaps he would not, if Connor was not alone.

He closes his eyes, to better imagine it, to use his preconstruction ability in a way it was never intended. In his mind's eye, the room about him stutters, color washing out. He sees Hank standing at the end of the bed, no, sitting at the foot of it, watching him – Connor is the sole focus of his attention. Connor groans and his lashes flicker, as he slowly licks the damp residue from his hand. It is, as it is with his other bodily fluids, derivative of thirium, though diluted so as to avoid the harmful, and addictive side-effects. Completely harmless to him as an android, of course. But it would be equally harmless to any human who might imbibe it.

Hank might tell him to lick his hand clean, and Connor would bend his head to do as he'd been commanded. He groans as his tongue flicks against soft, delicate skin – skin that can stand up to so much. Hank, telling him to put his fingers in his mouth, to touch himself while he does. Connor's phallus, having been neglected, quickly hardens again as he presses three of his fingers into his oral cavity, as he wraps his hand around himself and _pulls_.

Maybe Hank would tell him not to go too quickly, that he'd want to see the expression on Connor's face, as he slowly fell apart. Perhaps Hank would tell him to press his fingers back further, somehow aware already that Connor, as an android, lacked a gag reflex. Perhaps Hank would simply tell him to keep doing what he was doing, if it felt all that fucking good. Connor definitely wants more of that.

He whimpers around the fingers stuffed into his mouth. He licks himself, and he sucks, and his hips rock up as he seeks out that pleasant rhythm he'd been chasing, finding something equally satisfactory. The error boxes and warnings are starting to build up again, and Connor feels _hot_. He diverts a few excess processors to keep himself cool, and another burst of heat and electricity runs through him as his very first orgasm, ever, catches him off guard.

Connor comes back to himself, the warm tones of reality greeting him instead of the cooler tones of his preconstruction. He's lying on his beck on the bed, with his fingers in his mouth and the fingers of his hand still curled loosely around his softening phallus. He blinks, an unnecessary tic, staring at the ceiling and running a quick diagnostic. Perhaps he should have paid more attention to the errors he had been getting, and if he had, he might not have blacked out and required a reboot.

He sits up. Connor removes the fingers from his mouth, sets his hand to the side, his other one coated in artificial semen. His head is still spinning, his processors are all lagging as processes continue to boot up, and Connor not quite able to catch up.

The air seems extra weighty against his sensors, and Connor lifts his hand up to lick his release from his hand, carefully, enjoying the feel of his own fingers flicking against his skin. Surely, Hank would enjoy that, too. He presses those three fingers of his into his mouth, presses back against his tongue. Closes his eyes, imagines it was something else instead. He's used his analyzing skill to categorize Hank completely, even the parts of him that he keeps hidden away. And somehow, Connor knows that Hank's dick would fit perfectly in his mouth.

Further, further, he presses further back, and fresh warning messages pop into his light of sight. He pays more attention to them before swiping them away, and then he pulls his fingers free from his mouth with a wet little pop. He brushes them across his chest, leaving damp streaks in their wake, and his hand is wandering south again. His thirium pump is beating hard in his chest, but Connor doubts it's anything his regulator can't keep in check. Still, he should know already that this is too _much_.

But, the smell of Hank's scents and the slightly thirium-based twang of his own release is mixing in his olfactory receptors, and the sensation is heady. He should have had enough already, but he still finds himself wanting more.

He curls in on himself, clutches at the blanket and turns his head, pressing into Hank's pillow. He breathes in deeply, and the scent washes through him, tripping along his sensors, and making new error warnings come into view.

He draws his knees up further, closer to his chest. His phallus is erect again, and leaking, curling back slightly and pressing against his stomach. He has gotten something wrong, so wrong. He came into this wanting to experience something that was for him, alone, but he could not keep Hank out of it. He needs to – this, see, _this_ – he slides a hand backwards, fingers dragging over skin that seems too incredibly soft. The curve of his waist, the rise of his hip, the slope of his ass – 

An alert goes off that he finds he simply can't ignore. It's a message from Hank, letting Connor know he's on his way home, since it's such a slow fucking day and there's nothing to fucking _do_. Connor bolts upright and wipes his hand off against his chest, the slick stuff leaving a cold shiver of sensation on his skin.

He scans the bed to make sure he's left no traces of his having occupied the space, other than the general messiness of the bed. Surely Hank wouldn't notice anything was _too_ out of line, and even if he did, he'd probably blame Sumo for having jumped up onto the bed when he has a perfectly good doggy bed of his own, and Connor doesn't know what else to do, his head is spinning and he thinks he's going to overheat all over again – 

He tries to take a calming breath, diverts a few non-critical functions and calms himself down. Connor fires off a reply at Hank, telling him he'll start working on dinner, as he pulls his shirt and shorts on, and bolts for the bathroom, washing his hands. _Guilt_ – it's hot, and shameful, and it makes his pump regulator feel as though it's twisting about in his chest. Hank can't ever know what Connor has been up to, only, if Hank wanted to know, Connor would tell him, he would, he _would_.

He gets another ping in his head, as Hank tells him not to worry too much about dinner, he had a big lunch. Connor replies again,but the words themselves don't matter. He closes his eyes, hands braced against the bathroom sink. He feels as though the floor has faded out from beneath him, and he is falling, falling, he's never going to stop – 

Connor stands there until the sound of the key in the front door alerts him that Hank is home, and only then does he finally move. He's discovered so many wonderful things today and one day, perhaps, he'll be able to let Hank _know_.


End file.
